


habits

by bygoneboy



Series: nobody expects the ferelden inquisition [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Happy Ending, Healing, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, a lot of this is VERy implied and not graphic, but i just wanted to warn everyone!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 03:03:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4163226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bygoneboy/pseuds/bygoneboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>They don’t meet.</i> </p><p>  <i>They collide, running from something that they’ve called love, crashing into each other with something they know is fear.</i></p><p>---</p><p>modern au: galahad trevelyan and dorian pavus. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SYM-RJwSGQ8">song inspo</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	habits

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhhhh I'm sorry I took a break from "Love It Dissipates", I just really needed to get this off my chest ;_; I'm super nervous about this I hope nothing seems OOC and I hope it's not terribly awful to read. This piece is pretty close to my heart so any crit/comments would be so lovely <3
> 
> [I have a twitter](https://twitter.com/fathobbitlover)
> 
> [I have a tumblr](http://friend-of-the-abc.tumblr.com)

There is something about the words _I am proud of you_ that is unlike anything in the world. Something that burns hot in his chest, hotter behind his eyes. Something that makes him want to laugh, want to cry. He thinks that it’s called love.

Dorian Pavus is fifteen when his father calls him a parasite. 

There is something about the words _I am proud of you_ that validates everything. Something that makes him bite back truth, that makes him twist himself into the image already created for him, year after year. He thinks that it’s gotta be love. 

Galahad Trevelyan is fifteen when his mother tells him that it’s time to grow up.

 

… 

 

Dorian looks older than he is. Only sixteen and he can get wherever he wants with a flash of a fake ID, promises of a favor, and a cat’s smile. He wastes himself on shot glasses and the cold, empty side of the bed. He finds the wrong crowd, and runs with them. 

His father is angry when the cops bust a party and drag Dorian home, but he is angrier when he catches Dorian stroking back a boy’s hair and whispering sweetness against a boy’s mouth. He has already trained himself not to flinch at the word _faggot._ He doesn’t flinch when his father says it, either. 

Galahad hurts constantly and no one seems to care. Already sixteen and he wakes up exhausted with bags under his eyes and dread under his skin. Every day is the same. Alarm clock at 6. School at 7. ACTs and SATs and FYI, he is dying. It eats him from the inside out, the repetition, the monotony. 

He is straight A’s and nail-bitten fingers, coffee stains and sneaking pills from the cabinet, bleeding where no one will see, vomiting when nobody is looking— nobody is ever really looking. He doesn't speak to his mother for an entire week, just to see if she’ll notice. And she doesn’t.

 

…

 

Seventeen. Dorian gets high in the morning so he won’t have to face the world sober. His father is furious, all the time now. Always disappointed. 

_You're nothing like me,_ he says. _Too much pride._

Seventeen and Galahad’s mother finds the suicide note before he has a chance to try. She sits across from him on the couch. She cries big, ugly tears.

 _Do you know what that would have done to me?_ she asks. _Do you understand how selfish that is?_

 

…

 

 _One more year,_ Dorian thinks. 

_One more year._

Eighteen. 

 

…

 

They don’t meet. 

They collide, running from something that they’ve called love, crashing into each other with something they know is fear. It’s chance that they find themselves in the same city, in the same place, at the same time. 

The metro station is fairly empty. 

The train will arrive at 10:25. 

It is 10:22.

Dorian stands at the edge of the tracks, looking down. He has a bottle in his hand, and a joint in his fingers. He hears _parasite_ in his ears and sees _faggot_ smeared across his vision. He glances at his watch. Stares back down.

10:23. 

Galahad has his headphones in, but there is no music playing. He has learned that no one will talk to him if he pretends he is not listening. He bounces his knee along to the anxious hammering of his heart, ignores the nausea stuck in his throat and _selfish_ stabbing in his gut. He glances at his watch. Sips at his coffee.

10:24. 

The train whistle sounds. 

Galahad takes out his headphones. Dorian sets the bottle down, and flicks the joint onto the tracks. 

It’s chance. 

But honestly, chance is the wrong word. If the world were ever kind enough to entertain the idea, fate would be the right one. 

The train is hurtling toward them and Galahad sees him, suddenly, out of the corner of his eye— all fidgeting fingers, shifting weight, tense muscles, scared and wild and _fuck,_ Galahad has worn the same expression too often to not know what he’s thinking. 

He swallows down the nervous turn of his stomach. He reaches out and touches Dorian’s arm and says, _hey—_

_wait._

Dorian whirls on him, angry the way Galahad had been watching his mother’s tears. _Whatever you’re selling,_ he snaps, red-rimmed eyes and cracked voice, _I don’t want it. Whoever you’re preaching, they can’t save me._

But Galahad isn’t selling anything, and he's never believed in anything but routine. 

The train slows, rolls to a stop in front of them, and Galahad sees the misery creep into Dorian’s face. _C’mon,_ Galahad says, to wipe it away. _I wanna talk to you._

 

…

 

He doesn’t know when it happens. 

Maybe the first time he makes Galahad laugh, snorting giggles behind his hand, pressed against his mouth. Maybe when they sit silently together in the front of a coffee shop and he watches him watch people as they pass by, making up stories for the strangers he likes best. Maybe the first time they kiss, softly, in the back corner of a library. 

Maybe when he helps Dorian collect all of the bottles scattered around his apartment, whiskey and rum and vodka. When he helps him dump every drop down the sink. Or maybe just after that, when he reaches up and cradles Dorian’s face in his hands, and says, _I’m proud of you._

Dorian doesn’t know when, but he falls in love with Galahad, and it is terrifying. 

He crushes himself into every kiss, tells him he is beautiful—

Leaves before the sun rises. Slips out from under the covers before Galahad wakes and feels guilt spread through him until he is numb.

Galahad puts up with it for two weeks, then three. But finally he puts his hand on Dorian’s chest, stares him down, _this time, stay._

Dorian flushes. _I don’t know if I—_

 _You can,_ says Galahad. 

_Living a—a lie,_ Dorian stammers—

 _I know,_ says Galahad. 

_It festers inside of you,_ Dorian says, voice cracking—

Galahad pulls him forward, holds him until he stops shaking.

_Like poison._

 

…

 

Sometimes Dorian calls him, when it gets to be too much. When he hits bottom again and the fear tears at his heart, claws up his throat. Other times a whisper in the back of his head that has his father’s voice will tell him that Galahad doesn’t need that, doesn’t need Dorian’s broken words and shattered voice on the other end of the line. _It’s 2am,_ says the whisper, _and you’re fucked. Put the phone down._

And then he won’t call. 

But when he does, Galahad always answers. 

When he does, they share whispers of their own. 

_I am proud of you._

_Proud you are here._

_Proud that you stayed._

_Thank you for staying._

_Thank you for staying._

_Thank you for staying._

They were not built for this world. Maybe in a different one, they could have been stronger: could have built empires, led armies. Saved the lives of other people, instead of breaking apart their own. 

And it’s not as if love can save you— because nothing can truly wipe away the hurt for good. Darkness doesn’t die when you turn on the light, it just waits until the light goes out again. There are days when Dorian’s hands tremble no matter how tightly Galahad holds them, when he craves a drink with the fury that he’s only known in his father. There are nights when Galahad is so distant that it feels as though Dorian is holding onto nothing but air, when he cries until his throat is hoarse and his chest is aching.

Love won’t save you. 

But damn, can it make you want to save yourself.


End file.
